Lessons from Unplanting

The Little Limes were beautiful.

In early summer, the so-called-petite hydrangeas sprouted thick green leaves and a profusion of pale green blossoms that faded to white then pink. Their light scent drifted around the patio attracting winged things. 

After winter set in for good, the leaves broke off but the blooms dried into shades of caramel, sand, and chestnut that lingered on the stalks. Then the brittle blossoms swayed against the white snow.

Yes, they were beautiful. For another time, another garden, a life where no one perpetually needed to pass through. Here, now, they were flower-heavy and weight-bent and wild-grown.

I tried to tame them, really I did. Every spring I trimmed the shrubs down to a diameter of less than two feet. I wound a circular tomato plant trellis around each bush to coax it to carry its own weight.

And I spoke sweetly to them, asking them to please bloom upright like their rosebush neighbors and not crowd the patio stepping stones. Please - be polite, be respectful, be easy. I need more easy in my life.

But the hydrangeas refused and rebelled. They grew five feet tall and four wide. They waved their heavy flowers at me in contempt. They mocked the edge of the flower bed and threatened to take control of the corner of the house too.

I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to rip them up while they begged and pleaded for another chance, promising this time they'd be pliant and shy. I didn't want to hear their wet explanations that everything just wants to live and thrive. I didn't want to be told I should have known who they were when I planted them.

They were not wrong.  

 

I felt bad about it with every slice of my shovel into dirt, every levering up of root. But I did it. I dug them up, dragged each unwilling shrub to the street corner, and advertised them free to a good home.

In the end they were separated like two ends of a wishbone, adopted by two different neighbors on wide-spaced streets. But it's better this way. They can grow unburdened by my flawed expectations, and I can plant shrubs with clearer eyes and a better understanding of sun and rain.

Lesson learned: rid yourself of what is no longer working for you, even if it was beautiful. Even if you can hardly bear to let it go. Nothing is perfect, but all of us deserve better than making do.  

Welcome, Fire Light Tidbit.

I look forward to getting to know you.